


We dance to weird songs, too

by ch19777



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-07
Updated: 2010-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-06 17:59:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ch19777/pseuds/ch19777
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Maybe we're just too complex to get away with an average love song as our hymn." - Written for the February challenge at the Jello Forever Forum with the prompt 'love songs'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We dance to weird songs, too

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** Same old story - it's not mine.

Summer in the city.

A warm, moonlit night.

Chirping crickets in the nearby park, only audible when the jolly crowd of human night owls is silent for a millisecond.

And there, a dark-haired figure, standing forlornly at the corner of 57th and J Street and pressing her nose against the window of a restaurant. Can you see her? Come closer!

That woman there is me.

Once or twice a month, I allow myself the luxury to go out and have a good time. I always make plans for those nights - going to the movies, meeting friends I haven't seen for far too long - but often I end up on a trip to places of past happiness all by myself.

The cozy restaurant at the corner is one of the places where Jane and I used to eat a lot. Right there, that table on the left side, was our favorite place. Currently it is occupied by a lone attractive stranger and I suddenly have the absurd idea to go in and join him for dinner. After all, I'm not in a relationship anymore for eleven months now and I don't get any younger.

I could go in there, sit across from him and my skirt could seemingly accidentally ride up an inch. We would talk about movies and politics and all the trivialities that people choose as conversation topics during dates. I could ask him how his steak is and if he knows a cure for fits of coughing at toddler age. Until closing time I would stay with him and then I'd leave him behind – perplexed and helpless - without even telling him that my name is Teresa. For days, maybe weeks even, he would wonder who this mysterious woman was and why the mother of a toddler is hanging out in restaurants at night. Maybe he would search for me via newspaper ad or announcement over the radio, but he wouldn't get an answer.

Because he isn't the right one.

Because he isn't Jane.

I silently curse and turn away from the window. Already thinking of Jane means breaking several of my own rules. Thinking of him _wistfully_ is downright unacceptable.

Determinedly _not_ thinking about Jane, I move along down the street until I _accidentally_ end up in front of another eating place that's packed with memories. Antonio's, home of crappy pizza and delicious pasta that I used to snatch from Jane's plate. On a whim I enter the restaurant, feeling that it is time to reclaim the place for myself and to stop considering it as 'ours'. I sit down at a random table, pick up a menu and realize that I'm not hungry at all. Still, I order sea food pasta and a salad to have an excuse to stay a little longer.

The waiter eyes me up with obvious interest, but I'm not in the mood for flirting - or more - tonight. I hardly ever am. My pleasant, neat appearance occasionally fools men that I am emotive and approachable when I rather feel like hiding from the world. I learned to prevent clumsy, awkward flirtation by wearing my head a little too high to seem nice. When I go shopping or jogging I usually put on headphones to cloister myself away. Sometimes the MP3 player is off, but that doesn't matter if only I can pretend to be immersed in music.

It's not that I lived like a nun for the past months though. Occasionally a man catches me in a moment of acknowledged loneliness and easily wins me over, if only for a little while. We are never made for eternity. We lick each other's emotional wounds, engage in comforting but meaningless sex and then go separate ways again.

Listlessly I pick at my salad. The waiter is still staring. He appears to be way too uncomplicated to be my type of man. I rather have a weak spot for lost souls and human wrecks. For people who got disappointed once too many and built a wall around their emotions. Since my childhood I fell for guys like that, starting with my father and ending most recently with Jane.

Jane.

The man who silently wept for a love long gone while I was trying to built a home for us. He who went on a revenge campaign instead of being at my side when I was shaken by morning sickness or gave birth to our daughter.

It doesn't matter that he came back later, begging for forgiveness. It was too late then. I opened up to him and he broke my heart. I don't want any more of this. I have to protect what is left of me and in order to achieve this, I created a protective barrier around my emotions. I turned into a woman who darts looks of reproach at smooching couples and who turns off the radio when it plays certain songs.

My pasta is served and I begin to eat as if I would actually be hungry. After a while I notice that I am waiting for something. No, not something. For _someone_. I wait for Jane to enter the restaurant and to make the doorbell ring. I wait that a sudden hunger for pasta and for the past leads him to me. For eleven months I didn't see him outside of work or in the absence of our kid. Back then we stopped being 'us' and turned into stressed co-workers and unstrung, reticent parents.

Jane doesn't come. Of course not. _If_ I'd want to talk to him alone, I'd have to go looking for him. For the umpteenth time I tell myself to stop thinking of him. My feelings for him are - should be, will be – dead. Pretending works well, as long as he isn't anywhere near me. On good days, I am able to make myself believe that I'm indifferent to his presence. Then there are times when I am tempted to shed my impassive mask and to give in to unrestrained, desperate, foolish love. But I can't do this. Lines are drawn. I am strong enough to accept this. We are both, more or less, responsible adults.

Really, it is better this way.

I pay for my meal and move on. The night is still young. A man passes by, burping loudly, and I smile when it reminds me of my little daughter. It is insane that people consider even sounds like that cute when a baby produces them. Me, I am always rather grossed out by this. Judging by her excitement and the sparkle in her eyes whenever she sees me, I probably still do a pretty good job as a mother. Her first word was "mommy", so that is something.

She means the world to me and only with her I can truly be myself. What does it say about me that a toddler is my best friend and keeper of all my innermost secrets? She is a gift that I didn't even know I longed for until she first stared at me with amethyst eyes, wrinkled her forehead and pressed her tiny fists against my chest. Only sometimes, when her smile reminds me too much of her daddy, I am glad to leave her in the hands of a trusty babysitter for a few hours and be on my own for a while.

I arrive at a bar not far away from Jane's apartment and I give up persuading myself that I picked this one purely by chance. After ordering a drink, I settle down on a bar stool and observe the people around me. There are couples and small groups everywhere I look and everyone seems to have a good time, making me feel strangely left out. Jane and I were here only twice, right in the beginning of our relationship. Those nights were filled with a weird variety of music and with the feeling of Jane's breath tickling my ear every time he wanted to tell me something.

In my youth, I liked to hang out in places like this. Things are transitory in bars. Encounters, talks, songs - everything is intense for a little while, but nothing lasts for too long. I remember that being with Jane in this specific bar gave me a taste of eternity instead. Sounds and people drifted by, but we were caught in our own abiding world.

Suddenly I need to get out of here. I want to go home to my daughter and cling to her who I have left, instead of getting swallowed alive by useless reminiscences. But, before I get a chance to even stand up, I freeze. There, on the other side of the room, Patrick Jane himself strolls into the bar. My heart throbs painfully. Stupid, impressionable thing. Several pairs of eyes turn in his direction, but these looks of needy women seem to deflect off him like water on a lotus leaf. I am convinced that he already spotted me, even though he doesn't deign to look at me and pointedly casually moves forward. He is good, I have to admit this, but I am versed in the art of feigned coolness as well.

"Hello." Jane says when he arrives next to me, meets my eyes for a nanosecond before his indifferent look starts scanning our surroundings.

"Hi." Three letters less than his greeting - I am proud of myself.

"It's been a while." Jane tells his glass of wine.

"Hm." I mumble as noncommittal as possible, seemingly talking to my Tequila Sunrise.

At the other end of the bar, I spot a good-looking guy and I smile at him. It's stupid, I know that myself, but Jane's presence often encourages me to act unreasonably. The guy doesn't react. Maybe I was flirting too subtly. Jane notices him as well now and eyes him hostilely. Unfortunately, before I get the chance to play the ancient game of making my ex jealous, my chosen target gets company in form of a curvaceous blonde.

The corners of Jane's mouth twitch.

Damn.

I look bashfully at the ground. Jane sips his wine, I very intently study the content of my glass. We forgot how to talk to each other, _really_ talk to each other, a long time ago.

"Well..." Jane turns away from me, looking at the now empty glass in his hand.

I don't want him to leave.

And I'm afraid that he'll stay.

After a moment of hesitation, he orders another drink. He doesn't ask if I want anything as well; I would have reclined anyway.

The DJ shouts some kind of announcement, but I'm too distracted to pay attention to him. The music fades away and a new songs starts. Some people cheer, but I am suddenly paralyzed with fear. This is a sick joke, a coincidence so incredible that it makes me gasp.

" _Saying I love you, is not the words I want to hear from you..."_

Without mercy, the song goes on and I am tempted to cover my ears with my hands. Long-lost memories assail me and make it difficult to pretend that I'm unaffected by the music. I don't notice anything, don't hear anything, don't feel anything. Nope, not me. I'm completely calm and cool. With narrow eyes I glance at the exit and wonder just how suspicious it would look if I'd abscond now.

Next to me Jane slumps down.

"This song..." He whispers, so softly that I almost don't understand it.

He tries looking into my eyes, but I don't allow that for fear of what he might see in there. I busy myself with taking care of a non-existent stain on my skirt.

"Do you remember?" Jane dreamily taps his toes.

I refuse to answer, pretend to have no memories whatsoever of our past together. Impetuously he jumps up and grabs me by the shoulders, giving me no other choice but to finally look at him. The intensity displayed in his eyes comes as a shock. They are are full of conflicting emotions, the same emotions that I have buried deep inside of me as well.

"What?" I snap at him, maybe a little bit too loud.

Feeling embarrassed by my lack of self-control, I quickly avert my gaze. Jane tries to sing along now, moves his lips, forgets the lyrics. Isn't he able to do anything right? I try to cling to this cynic thought in order to blanket the truth. His hands still hold on to my shoulders, so tightly that it hurts.

"Damnit, Lisbon, of course you remember. This night. The song, in the car..."

That was before you screwed everything up, I almost accuse him, but I remain silent. I'd cut off my own tongue if it helps to prevent me from admitting how much I miss him. That our breakup only doesn't hurt if I renounce. As soon as I give in to the pain, it is omnipresent and so numbing that I don't even feel myself anymore.

Deep inside my heart I know that it isn't only his fault. Sometimes I wish I could have been more empathetic. I should have realized how much I love him _before_ it was over. I wish I was able to just let my feelings flow. I could say: We both messed things up, we hurt each other, but let's try it again. Unfortunately, I am not able to want a second chance and maybe I don't even want to be able.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." I say instead.

My brief flirt with weakness is over and I'm in control of myself again. Jane relinquishes his grip on my shoulder. Slowly, waveringly. As if things between as aren't completely resolved yet. I feel his fingers on me. The weight, the pressure, and a little bit more. Something like warmth. I have trouble breathing. Something that reminds me of another time, before we went separate ways. Swiftly I free myself and rush out into the night. I can't get away from him fast enough. The last beats of the song accentuate my departure.

For a few seconds I avidly inhale the soft nightly air. My escape leaves a bitter-sweet taste in my mouth. Eventually I am ready to leave, to once and for all turn my back on this bar and on Jane and on the past. But of course it is not that easy. When I look up, I am only mildly surprised to see Jane leaning against the wall next to the entrance.

I should ignore him and go home, that is the plan, but my feet refuse to behave and force me to stand still while he walks up to me. I try to look past him, to focus on the neon lights behind him, but that proves to be difficult. Our song is over and less sentimental music starts playing. That surely is a sign to let bygones be bygones. Or isn't it?

"This could become our new song." Jane suggest, as if answering my silent question. "New song, new luck."

I can't help smiling a little, to my dismay. I hate that he still has this of power over me. The music that echoes out of the bar is pretty scary and I doubt that many couples would pick it to link their love with. But, thanks to Jane, I will be damned to label this noise as our song, no matter how weird a choice it is.

"You do realize that this is punk rock, right?" I say, to be able to hide behind an impassive mask and to distract both of us from his unspoken request for a second chance.

"So?"

"You can't even really dance to it."

"Does is matter?" Jane asks and looks deeply into my unprotected eyes.

Seeing how little space there is between us now, there isn't much else than his breathtaking closeness that matters right now.

The music engulfs us in a hug.

It invades my body and occupies every cell.

I feel its texture.

Vibration.

Rhythm.

Tempo.

It mingles with Jane's breath on the skin of my face, duels with the beating of my heart.

Suddenly I realize that the song fits well, after all. It's not the words, I am not even able to really make them out. It isn't the tune itself either. It is its uniqueness, its refusal to carry any resemblance to an ordinary love song. Melodic parts are followed by disharmonies. There is liveliness, there is silence. It is surprising and unexpected and sometimes just plain noisy and annoying. This is us. It captures the good times and the pain that inevitably goes hand in hand with them.

Maybe we're just too complex to get away with an average love song as our hymn. A song, a dance, a kiss - did we really expect it to be this easy after all both of us went through in the past? Maybe that's why we didn't work out the first time: We simplified things. We were too busy pretending to be carefree to be able to appreciate the magnificent highs and the challenging lows that a love like ours offers.

Jane reaches out for me and, after a moment's hesitation, I intertwine my fingers with his. His smile huddles against my head and I let it thaw the armor of ice that protected me for the past eleven months. My cheek rests on his shoulder, his hand caresses the small of my back, and I think it just might be perfect.

There is the radiance of the moon.

There is the comforting sound of crickets.

There is a little girl, sleeping peacefully in her crib, who will never be able to remember a time when her mommy and daddy didn't live together.

And there's us. Clinging to each other on a moonlit street, we discover our ability to dance to dissonant songs, too.


End file.
